


What Bjorn saw

by swanpride



Series: What they saw in Wessex [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanpride/pseuds/swanpride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been five years since Bjorn had laid eyes on their priest</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Chapter Beta-read by 9Tiptoes

The ravens were already feasting by the time Bjorn and his mother returned to the battlefield.  They had taken every warrior who was still able to walk and fight with them. Due to his leg injury Ragnar had stayed back with the more seriously wounded to prepare the funeral. Horik and his son had spread out with a couple of sentries, securing the area. Bjorn approved of the precaution (even if it came way too late), but was bothered by Horik using is as an excuse to avoid dealing with the mess he had caused by storming ahead, leaving it to Lagertha to organize the removal of the bodies.

The sentries were not needed, though. Either the Saxons did honour the need to retrieve their fallen, or, more likely, they were all busy celebrating their victory. Meanwhile Bjorn was working side-by-side with Torstein, carrying corpses to fill makeshift frames which were then pulled  back to the camp by the horses they had obtained during the battle.

They didn’t find Rollo.

He was not the only one missing. There were others unaccounted for, but they might simply be in a hidden spot. But Bjorn knew exactly where his uncle had fallen and yet there was no trace of him. It gave him hope. He still couldn’t believe what had happened.

Since he had been a little boy, Bjorn had heard stories about the lands in the west. He had seen his father and his mother go on raids, returning with many treasures and very few casualties. And even though Bjorn was no longer the stupid little boy who saw only the glory in battle, even though he had known that he might die on this raid, it had never occurred to him that they might _lose_. It had never occurred to him that it would be his experienced uncle who would go down, while he himself came out of the battle unscathed.

Nothing on this raid held up to expectations. The landscape was green, but the weather was rainy. Both of his parents were struggling with keeping Horik’s fatalistic tendencies in line. The weak Saxons had drummed up an unexpected level of defence. And King Ecbert or one of his generals was apparently a tactical genius. Sure, Horik had made it easy, storming ahead and giving up their position on the top of the hill, but the way the enemy forces had flanked them in had been masterful. Bjorn was shelving the tactic away in his mind for future use.

The next day dawned in grey colours, but at least free from rain, though the thick clouds and the foggy air were still dampening the mood. That, and an overall sense of uncertainty. Nobody really knew what to do next. They couldn’t risk a second attack, but leaving was, at least for Bjorn, not an option. So they were basically lying in wait; anxious for what the foreign king would do next.

Until Athelstan turned up.

Bjorn had been sitting with his back to the entry of the camp when the commotion alerted him. Turning his head, he laid eyes on one of his childhood protectors for the first time in five years . As fast as possible without showing undue hurry, he stepped forward to meet him. His eyes caught one of Horik’s warriors at the barrier. Standing behind Athelstan, he looked ready to grab his axe and ram it into the priest's back. Casually, Bjorn drew his knife, playing with it, while sending out warning looks to anyone who might get the idea to attack without order.

Athelstan didn’t seem to notice the byplay. He scanned the crowd, his eyes lingering especially on Lagertha’s face. Bjorn didn’t expect to be recognised. Upon his return to Kattegat, a lot of people had been unsure about his identity. But Athelstan  addressed him immediately, with not a hint of doubt in voice.

“Hello Bjorn. Do you remember me?”

Did Bjorn remember him? Of course he did. Although it was hard time to reconcile his hair and clothes with thrall Bjorn had once known. They had always called Athelstan a priest, but he had never really looked the part. Even when he was new at the farm he had looked mostly like an oddity with his strange clothes and shorn head. But in this long robe, the symbol of his god openly displayed, he looked like someone in a position of honour. Which would fuel the rumours that Athelstan had betrayed them.

“Of course I remember you. I wanted to kill you when I was a child,” Bjorn recalled. “And then I grew to love you.”

A small smile graced Athelstan’s lips, and it occurred to Bjorn that this might have been the first time in years anybody voiced this sentiment towards him.

“I know that you’re close to your uncle,” he said and Bjorn held his breath. Did Athelstan know what had happened to Rollo? “I want you all to know that Rollo is alive. Wounded. But alive and being taken care of.”

Relief mixed with worry. Not because this sounded like the wounds were serious - they had known that, a minor wound would have never taken his uncle down - but because it was heavily suggested that the Saxons knew who Rollo was. Had Athelstan told them? If he had, Bjorn decided, he wouldn’t hold it against him. The Saxons had stabbed more or less every single body on the field, alive or not.

Horik, on the other hand, made no secret of his dislike for Athelstan, openly attacking his honour, the moment he revealed that he had come to talk. Athelstan didn’t rise to the provocation. Instead he slightly shifted his head, looking now more in the general direction of Lagertha and Ragnar and spoke of peace and a possible agreement. Bjorn took one step to the side and then, aware that he would blocking Horik’s view otherwise, crouched down. From this position he could observe Athelstan better, while still being close enough to react should the situation escalate.

Maybe for the first time in his life, Bjorn really saw Athelstan. Not the priest, not the thrall, but Athelstan, the man who stood his ground to deliver an offer, heedless of the insults thrown at him. And it occurred to Bjorn how insignificant Horik truly was compared to the man the king had called a “worthless individual” at Ragnar’s own table.

Bjorn was still enraged about the callous words, spoken with no respect for a man who had 'died' in Horik’s service. He was enraged that he had been the only one who had spoken up on Athelstan’s behalf. Bjorn knew that his father was most likely just bidding his time, but what about everyone else? Had Rollo and Floki forgotten how Athelstan had saved his father’s life? Had Siggy forgotten how Athelstan had spoken up for her when she had come to Bjorn’s mother, begging for a place in her household? And now? How could people judge Athelstan’s actions without knowing what had really happened to him?

Athelstan was still the calm and somewhat timid man Bjorn remembered. And yet, he seemed bigger somehow. Not because of Bjorn’s crouching position, but because Bjorn now had a different perspective in another sense of the wording. What he had considered as a weakness as a child, he now saw as a different kind of strength. It was the same kind of silent resistance he had learned at Sigvard’s court. Bjorn knew now to pick his battles (most of the time). Laying low, listening to what was going on around you and then using the opportunity to strike; that was how his mother had won her position of authority, and Bjorn tried to follow her example.

It was the strategy Lagertha continued to use, he realized. She had waited for the right moment to assert her authority as a Jarl and it had finally come. Effortlessly she took control of the situation, swiftly accepted the offer they had been given. There had been no choice either way. They had to try, for Rollo’s sake.

After his father had declared that he would accompany Athelstan part of the way, Bjorn straighten himself up, his eyes following the two figures as they vanished beyond the trees. Then he turned to his mother.

“He didn’t change at all,” he noted, seeking confirmation that Athelstan had always possessed this kind of silent bravery. Lagertha slightly tilted her head in agreement, but she looked worried. Bjorn glanced back to the trees. There was something he was missing.


	2. Chapter 2

The negotiations opened Bjorn’s eyes in more than one regard. His father has told him about the villa and the strange stone statues in it. Ragnar had scoffed over the notion that they were built by giants and Bjorn had been inclined to agree. But nothing could have prepared for reality. It was a huge building, bigger than anything Bjorn had ever seen. It was colder and less inviting than a longhouse, but impressive nevertheless. Even Horik was not able to sneer about it. In fact, he kept looking around, betraying his insecurity in every movement. Bjorn took care to be less obvious about his feelings, copying the quiet confidence his parents demonstrated. And yet he couldn’t help wondering what kind of people had been knowledgeable enough to build something like this.

The king’s son, Aethelwulf, led them personally through the stone walls to the meeting place. Bjorn didn’t miss the careful arrangement. To approach the table they had to climb up a short stair, putting them initially beneath his host. A subtle reminder that they were in no position to make demands. The Saxons had won the battle and now had with Rollo (as well as Athelstan) a pressure point. And now Bjorn had little doubt that the king personally was the mastermind behind this defeat.

King Ecbert was courteous, though. Inviting them to the table, greeting them in their own language. But either he had been a less dedicated study than Bjorn’s father or Athelstan only a very reluctant teacher. Or he spoke the language better than he let on. With a shrewd adversary like this one should consider the possibility. Again Bjorn couldn’t help but notice the arrangement, which forced them to look into the direction of the windows. With the light in their backs, the faces of their hosts were only dark shadows, impossible to read. Which might have been the reason Ragnar had decided to get seated at the side of the table, leaving the more prominent places to Lagertha and Horik. It didn’t allow him a better view on the king, but Athelstan was clearly visible from this position.

Athelstan was all business, outlining the offer to them, while King Ecbert leaned back in his chair. The terms were surprisingly gracious, nearly too good to be true, but Bjorn couldn’t detect any trap. The land his father dreamed of. The gold his mother needed to prove her people that she had been the right choice for a leader. And Rollo. More or less everyone at the table would get what they wanted, except Horik - and Erlendur, but then, Bjorn had no idea what Erlendur thought about anything. He was usually simply the shadow of his father, barely saying a word.

They agreed to the treaty. Naturally they agreed. Horik didn’t have much of a choice at this point, Lagertha and Ragnar overruled him and there was no way he could explain his warriors why he hadn’t taken gold and land when the alternative was coming home defeated. He made no effort to hide though that he was reluctant to strike any deal with a Christian, and he stayed utterly silent while Lagertha asked for the specifics. How high would the fee for the warriors who decided to fight for Mercia? What kind of protections did King Ecbert guarantee? Where exactly was the land he promised them located?

It was only when they left the table that Bjorn realized that one topic had been avoided by both parties: What about Athelstan?

He asked the question later his father, when they were riding towards the camp.

“Athelstan is a free man,” was the answer. “He can’t be bartered away. Also,” a furtive look ensured that none of the others were in hearing range, “King Ecbert has no intention to let him go.”

His father was right, Bjorn realized. The king had acted very possessive, keeping Athelstan close, ensuring that there was no opportunity to exchange a private word. But if Athelstan felt threatened, he certainly would have told when he visited their camp, wouldn’t he? On the other hand, Athelstan was always fast with accepting pain on behalf of others. He wouldn’t jeopardize a peace treaty for their own gain. Still, the whole situation didn’t sit right with Bjorn.

“Shouldn’t we give Athelstan the option to come with us?”

“We should. And we will. At the right place and the right moment. But first we have to ensure your uncle’s safety.”

Bjorn had no argument against this notion. Athelstan was with his own people again. He would be safe and who knows, perhaps he even preferred it that way. After all the time he spend as thrall between them, he might not want to go back, even though he was a free man now. Bjorn knew that he had a comparable easy life with them, since Ragnar treated him mostly with respect and the villagers followed his example. Unlike Þorunn, Athelstan had never slept in the barn, never stood behind them to serve and never had to life in fear. When they had still lived on the farm, he had the same chores as everyone else, and when they had become the ruling family, he had been favoured above all the other thralls from the get go. He ate with them at the table, he slept in a corner in the family quarters, and was generally more seen as a freedman than a thrall, even though Ragnar had never officially stated his status back then.

But was what Athelstan had in Kattegat even remotely comparable with being the advisor to a king? A free and honoured man, surrounded by people who shared his faith? Bjorn remembered how complete he had felt the day he came back to Kattegat, his home. Athelstan might feel the same way about England. For the first time Bjorn seriously began to consider the possibility that they might leave Wessex without their favourite priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope nobody misunderstood the part with Bjorn being impressed by the villa. This is not about which kind of culture is superior. I just imagined how overwhelming it must be for someone to see a building like this for the first time...kind of like going to New York without ever having seen any pictures of it before, right?
> 
> I realize that most sites write Gaia Weiss' character name as "Porunn", but it should be Þorunn, spoken (and written if you aren't able to find the correct letter) "Thorunn". 
> 
> A "freedman" was in Viking society a former slave. In status, he was still one step beyond a "free-born", and there were certain restrictions which bond him to his former master.


	3. Chapter 3

The exchange went smoothly. Bjorn was immediately at his uncle’s side, helped carrying him into their tent. They would set sail the very same day, but until the ships were ready, he was supposed to lie as comfortable as possible. Rollo didn’t even seem to be aware. His breathing was strong, but he was pale and obviously in pain. While everyone else left, Bjorn kept vigil at his side.

They needed a healer. Floki was usually their expert in those situations, but it didn’t look like he would do more than absolutely necessary to help. He was still angry with Rollo about his own long-term injury and considered his suffering as a punishment from the god. If there was a way to convince him otherwise, Rollo had a better chance, but nobody could order Floki to do anything he truly didn’t want. Bjorn wasn’t even able to be angry with him. He understood. He didn’t agree, but he understood.

Bjorn’s thoughts were interrupted when Ragnar entered the tent, followed by a familiar figure. “Priest!” Bjorn left his uncle side in order to nearly suffocate Athelstan in a tight embrace. “Are you coming with us after all?”

Athelstan didn’t answer. He had too much trouble breathing to offer more than a nearly silent “uff”.

“How is Rollo?” asked Ragnar, putting a damper on Bjorn’s happiness.

“Not well,” he admitted. “The Saxons did what was necessary, but nothing more. He seems to be barely conscious.”

“He was awake yesterday evening,” said Athelstan, unwittingly revealing that he had looked after Rollo’s welfare. “But the fever got worse overnight. It got better in the early morning, but he has been barely aware since then.”

Now Bjorn felt even more thankful towards him. But before he could voice his feelings, he got distracted from soft moan behind him. He was immediately back at his uncle site. “You are safe now,” he told him, hoping that the assurance would help him to activate his last bit of strength. Was it just imagination or was Rollo breathing a little bit lighter now?

Athelstan watched them, obviously unsure what he should to. “You need some warm clothes for the voyage,” Ragnar said, scrutinizing the priest’s garb. “At least they gave you proper shoes this time around.” Digging into his possessions he pulled out a pair of trousers, one of his old shirts, a warm tunica and even a belt for Athelstan. Bjorn had to supress a smile. All warriors were carrying one set of extra clothes with them, but Ragnar hadn’t worn this shirt for ages and a belt was certainly overkill. Bjorn didn’t doubt that his father had packed those items with Athelstan in mind. Even if he now threw them at him in an offhanded gesture.

“Hurry up!” he ordered.

Athelstan shyness had slowly subsided during all his years in a culture, which didn’t have any understanding for his concept of modesty. But he was still not the kind of man who would freely display his body. Turning around in order to protect at least part of his privacy, he first slipped into the trousers before he started loosening his robe.

In the past, Bjorn would have taken the opportunity to tease him mercilessly. But now he said nothing. He even averted his eyes out of respect for Athelstan, turning back to Rollo. It was only the surprised yelp which made him look around again.

Ragnar was now standing beside a startled Athelstan, holding his left upper arm with his left hand. With his right he slowly moved over the priest exposed back and shoulders. Athelstan’s hands were still trapped in the fabric of his robe, but he made no movement to free them. Instead he was standing stock-still, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

Meanwhile Bjorn’s eyes followed the movement of Ragnar’s hand, noticing the faint white lines on the skin beneath. Scars. Not deep ones, but prominent enough that Bjorn was able to see them in the dim light of the tent.

“What happened?” growled Ragnar.

“Nothing,” Athelstan said hastily. “It was nothing…”

“Nothing?” Ragnar repeated incredulously. “You call this nothing? And this?” With a swift movement he pulled the fabric from Athelstan’s left, grabbing the hand and holding it high, so that a round, slightly puckered scar was clearly visible. “I have a pretty good idea what kind of torture might have caused this,” he then told Athelstan. “I have seen the pictures of your god.” He spat the last word.

“You don’t understand,” said Athelstan, twisting out of Ragnar’s grip in a swift movement. “I betrayed them. I killed my own people and broke all my vows. This was my punishment.”

It slowly dawned Bjorn what happened to Athelstan. “How are you still alive,” he asked softly.

Athelstan took a deep breath. “King Ecbert was riding by just in time,” he explained. “He ordered them to take me down.” Examining his hands he added: “I was lucky. I lost neither my ability to write, nor to walk.”

“Perhaps your god came through for you again,” Ragnar said. It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not. But his right hand, unconsciously balled to a fist, betrayed his fury upon the thought that Athelstan had nearly died.

“Perhaps,” Athelstan said coldly. “Can I now get clothed again?”

Nobody said anything while he dressed in his Viking garb. Ragnar glowered at his back, but Bjorn knew his father well enough to discern the reason for his anger. Even if he would never admit it out loud, Athelstan was part of his family, and Ragnar had been unable to protect him. If King Ecbert had been the perpetrator, the treaty would have been in jeopardy now. Bjorn was honestly not sure if Ragnar’s desire to protect his people would have been stronger than his need for revenge.

“If it didn’t happen on King Ecbert’s order, …” Ragnar started to ask, only to get interrupted by Athelstan. “I won’t tell you,” he said. “It is over.” He underlined the finality of this statement by fastening his belt in an uncharacteristically severe movement.

No, this wasn’t over. Sooner or later someone would pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this someone ended up being a certain worthless individual - at least I think that is part of the reason why Ragnar was so vicious. 
> 
> In my head-canon, Athelstan spend every moment he could with Rollo, ensuring that he had what he needed.


End file.
